Thus began a neatly divided, perfectly coordinated "procurement operation."
The children darted through the aisles like a cluster of little squirrels, comparing the blurbs on the backs of game boxes, arguing heatedly over which title offered the best value.
"Tanaka's gonna regret this so much," Kenta muttered gleefully, clutching two cartridges. "Last week he was bragging about his SFC, saying that was true next-gen. And now? He's stuck with just one Mario game while we've got all these!"
"Exactly! My dad even said only idiots are still wasting money right now. Even he praised Sega's promotion."
In the end, the kids marched proudly toward the register, arms full of game cartridges.
When the cashier packed seven or eight boxes into one oversized shopping bag, the heavy weight of it made each child beam with unrestrained joy.
Leaving the electronics shop, even the winter wind couldn't chill their excitement.
Their loud whoops echoed down the street—completely unaware that their small, cheerful "group-buy plan" was just one tiny reflection of what was happening across Japan in countless households and gaming circles.
And the tide formed by these countless little "clever tricks" was silently tipping the balance of the entire war.
---
Kyoto, Nintendo Headquarters.
The festive New Year cheer had evaporated here entirely. The air was cold and heavy enough to drip.
In Yamauchi Hiroshi's office, the ashtray was overflowing with cigar butts. A freshly compiled sales report for Christmas and New Year lay open on his desk.
A department manager stood before him, head bowed, sweat beading at his temples as he delivered his report in a dry, shaky voice.
"President, during the holiday period, SFC hardware and Super Mario World remained the top sellers in all categories. They also dominated magazine coverage and public attention."
He paused, then lowered his voice further.
"But Sega's promotion exceeded our estimates. Based on channel data, in the latter half of the holidays, MD cartridge sales exploded. Third-party publishers cleared massive amounts of inventory, and retailers' foot traffic and revenue—"
"Get to the point."
Yamauchi exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, squeezing the words out through his teeth.
The manager trembled and forced himself to turn the page—one he himself could barely bear to read.
"It's our first supported third-party title… Quintet's Ressha Strikes, released at the end of December—the peak sales season. But… the numbers are very poor."
"Very poor?" Yamauchi's eyelids lifted slightly, his gaze sharp as a blade.
"F-far below expectations," the manager stammered. "It was drowned in the sea of MD discount titles. Their marketing resources were too limited, and although Enix tried, the effect was minimal. Some players even said this new SFC title had less presence than last year's Dr. Mario on the FC…"
The office temperature seemed to drop further.
Dr. Mario—a simple puzzle game on an aging console.
To have an SFC-era ARPG smothered so badly it couldn't even surpass a low-stakes FC puzzle game—that was humiliation in its purest form.
Yamauchi said nothing. He simply lifted the report and began flipping through it page by page.
Only the rustle of paper filled the room.
The manager didn't dare breathe.
He knew the first time the president had erupted, prior to the SFC launch, it was because of manufacturing delays.
And now, this was the second time—
"Hah."
Yamauchi suddenly let out a short, bitter laugh. He slammed the report onto the desk with a startling crack.
"'Everyone is pleased'?" he growled, jabbing at a line in the analysis section—"Sega's third-party and retailers all delighted." Every word dripped with ice. "The market we built with so much effort, the users we educated with two and a half million consoles—what, they're now doing charity work clearing out Sega's old stock?!"
He stood and walked to the window, staring down at the bleak street below.
"I spent money, opened production lines—not to hear how well Sega's leftovers are selling! Is Enix's face worth only this much? Or is our SFC capable of selling nothing besides Mario?!"
His final shout shook the room.
The manager bowed even lower, wishing he could sink into the floor.
"Useless! Every last one of you useless!" Yamauchi spun back, his gaze sweeping the office like a predator's. "I pay you all to let Nakayama Takuya throw a carnival on SFC's face using a pile of outdated trash?!"
Silence—absolute and suffocating.
Yamauchi's chest heaved. After a moment, he seemed to calm, but his voice only grew colder.
"Go tell every third-party developer still waiting for SFC dev kits…"
He sank back into his chair and lit a new cigar, speaking quietly but unmistakably clearly.
"If they want a ticket onto the SFC, they'd better show sincerity. From this moment on, anyone who dares meddle in Sega's promotion—will never set foot in Nintendo's doors again."
The manager hunched even further, his collar soaked with sweat. He hesitated for a long time before whispering:
"President… then the early SFC lineup will… will expand even more slowly."
Yamauchi slowly turned his head—not toward him, but toward the window.
"Slow?"
He repeated the word, then let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Our SFC outperforms Sega's MD and isn't much more expensive. And Nintendo itself is the finest game developer in the world."
Returning to the desk, he tapped the disastrous sales figures of Ressha Strikes.
"A title that gets washed away by a few discount relics, a developer that can't even handle its own marketing—what use are they? To disgrace the SFC?"
Cold sweat dripped down the manager's temple to the floor.
Yamauchi continued, voice soft but heavy as iron.
"Right now, it's Nintendo giving them an opportunity. It is I who allow them aboard the SFC. If they don't cherish it—if they lean over the railing flirting with another sinking ship—"
He flicked his cigar, scattering ash, then took a deep drag.
"Let them stay on Sega's rotten boat. Spread my words: every third-party involved in Sega's New Year promotion—raise the price of their dev kits another ten percent."
"And as for the queue—"
He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. Behind it, his expression blurred into something unreadable.
"Let them wait at the very end. When I feel like it, I'll think about them again."
The air froze completely.
This was no business decision—this was a monarch disciplining his vassals.
"As for our game lineup…" Yamauchi's gaze finally returned to the manager. "Tell Miyamoto Shigeru to double his development staff immediately. If that's not enough, then triple it. The SFC has been out for over a month and we've released only a handful of titles. An utter failure in development output!"
He crushed the cigar into the ashtray, sparks bursting.
"I'll make sure everyone understands—Nintendo does not need a bunch of wavering fence-sitters to uphold its prestige."
"We ourselves are the prestige."
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